


Starkhaven

by AtomicPen



Series: Wings Straight and Swift Will Bring Us Home [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: 100 Days of Fic, 100 Days of Sebastian, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlet Sequence, Ficlets, Gen, Kirkwall, Other, Short Fics, Starkhaven, The Chantry, friendships, pre-game, relationships, romantic relationships, word prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A scandal from his birth, Sebastian never failed to satisfy that part of his life.</i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>series of short ficlets from my tumblr's 100 Days of Fic challenge <a href="http://atomicpen.tumbltr.com/prompts">masterlist</a>, in chronological order, following Sebastian at various points before Act I of the game begins</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trigger warning--mild child abuse**

He watched in a morbid fascination as it spread. It was a painstakingly slow process--so slow that he would think it was done, but then a few moments later it would have grown again. It started out as small as his thumbnail, but he watched it grow as large as his hand. Larger, actually. As large as his father's hand.

It didn't happen so often that he didn't feel the sting still, but it happened enough that he could push beyond the pain and watch the imprint of his father's fingers appear on his skin. It was his left thigh, this time. Left because left was wrong, just like he always was. His father always had such strong hands, but Sebastian couldn't find it in himself to admire them. Not when he could remember how the fingers of that large hand had dug without concern into his young flesh, as his father had leaned close to the struggling boy and told him exactly what he had done wrongthis time in a low and dangerous voice. Not when he face still cracked from the dried tear stains that had trailed down his cheeks and made his father even angrier.Vael men do not cry, he snapped, then slapped his son before releasing him and leaving.

What else could an eight-year old boy do but watch his father walk away from him?

When he could move again, he fled the room and hid himself in one of the towers that held the old library, where hardly anyone but himself went. The outside was made of rough stone, older than the rest of the castle, giving him easy handholds outside the window to climb to the flat top. The wind whipped about him, high as he was, and he took off his breeches to watch the bruise grow, just as he knew it would. His father could make an art of it, if he had wanted to. As he sat and stared at his leg, he resolved to never lay his hands on another like that. He would never leave spreading fingers behind on skin when his hands were gone. He would never make anyone cry from the pain of his touch.

After that time, no matter what his father did to punish him, Sebastian never did shed another tear. Vael men do not cry, and Sebastian no longer felt only his eight winters.


	2. Competition

This was it. It all came down to rest on him, on his shoulders. He took a breath in and drew the bowstring back to his jaw, back to where his lips would have touched the kiss. The fate of the kingdom (principality, he silently amended himself), the honour of his family name, was hinged upon him. Upon this last shot. He had to make the bullseye, had to outdo all the others before him. Three other arrows jutted out from the target, and two of them were embedded within the bullseye. Sebastian let his breath out slowly as he lined up his shot, willing his body, down to his beating heart, to still. He could do this. He wouldn't let anyone down.

All sounds faded away except for his now-steadied breathing, and his eyes saw nothing but the target, the small red circle in the very centre. He loosed the arrow, but didn't move a muscle until he heard the _thunk_ of the tip driving through the wood of his target.

"Sebastian!" a woman called from the garden doorway. "The guests have arrived and are asking after you! Put that bow down and come inside to present yourself!"

For a moment, he didn't answer her, face splitting into a grin as he saw he hit the bullseye in the very middle, in-between the other two arrows he had put in the bullseye earlier.

"Sebastian!" his mother snapped, louder this time.

"Coming!" the young man said, whirling away from his practice area and running to the garden door. It was a fun game while it lasted, he had decided, and it seemed to make him more accurate in practice--pretend everything rested on him for once, that everyone was waiting with bated breath for him to save them, to bring honour to their house. Maybe one day they would allow him to actually compete in the tourneys, and he could show them all how good he really was.


	3. Reason

He sat with his knees drawn up under his chin, arms wrapped around them. The wind whipped at his hair and clothes, and there was a sheer drop below him of what, to his small mind, was thousands of feet. He had no fear, however, as he sat on a wide merlon overlooking the city of Starkhaven, but he stared off to the distant mountains rather than down at the city, distracted. His brothers were fighters--swords and maces and axes danced in their hands, while he was all thumbs with such long and unwieldy weapons. He could manage daggers somewhat, but that only made them laugh harder at him.

Then his grandfather had intervened, suggesting that perhaps Sebastian's skills lie elsewhere, and had begun training the boy in archery, which he took to like a fish to water or a bird to the air. Even though he was far their younger, Sebastian quickly could best the guardsmen who had been training twice as long as he, and though he knew he should not gloat, he could not help but revel in his skill at times. Most guards took it well, though some, he knew, grumbled behind his--and his grandfather's--back. That was before.

"Sebastian?"

A sigh escaped the youngest Vael. Two years after he had been practicing with his bow, the Vaels took in a squire from Ferelden. Though he was only an arl's son, not of royal birth, the city of Amaranthine was a very important one, and his family wanted to maintain a good relationship with the bustling port city, and so agreed to squire the heir of the Howe family within their own stronghold. He was the firstborn, and so Sebastian assumed he would become fast friends with his elder brothers, but the heir was more of an age with him, and tried befriending Sebastian. So far, he had been unsuccessful and Sebastian had been obstinate.

"Nathaniel."

He heard the other boy walk behind him, slowing the closer he came. "Are you... gonna fall?"

"No. I come up here all the time."

"Oh. Do you... wanna practice?"

"Practice what? My brothers are better at practicing. You've seen them."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark-haired boy step up to the merlon next to him, resting his hands on it as he looked out at the Starkhaven countryside. He was silent for a while.

"I... I didn't mean practice like them."

Sebastian snorted. "Then what did you mean?"

"Well," Nathaniel started, looking up at the clouds, closing one eye against the brightness of the sun. "I've seen you shooting a bow." He chewed on his lip, hesitating before he continued. Sebastian mistook the pause for a finished thought.

"Yeah?" he snapped, tearing his eyes away from the older boy. "What of it?"

"I use one, too."

The statement took Sebastian completely off guard, and his eyes widened as it sunk in. He looked back over at Nathaniel, to see the other boy smiling at him.

"You--you do? Truly?"

Nathaniel laughed. "Yeah. My father didn't like the idea, but..."

"But?"

Something mischievous glinted in his steel grey eyes, and the Howe boy's smile turned to a grin.

"My father's all the way back in Ferelden."

Sebastian unfolded his legs to dangle off the merlon, his own grin spreading. "Yeah... he is, isn't he?"

Who would have thought the heir to anything would want to practice archery with a third son--even if he was a royal third son? Suddenly, the reasons Sebastian had to look forward to going to the archery range just multiplied.


	4. Stable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[reason](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760172)**

Quickly, the two became inseparable. They were closer than his brothers had ever been with him, and he finally had someone he could relate to. When they were a little older, Sebastian showed Nathaniel all the secret passageways he had discovered in Starkhaven over the years, and they got drunk for the first time together--him eleven, Nathaniel thirteen--and had both swiftly become the two best archers the castle had seen in recent memory. Even his brothers had stopped picking on Sebastian for a while; it was like when Nathaniel was around, the two of them together were too strong a force for his brothers to reckon with. That was how it felt, anyway. More likely, the extra person just made it not worth the extra effort. They were far too interested in looking at all the noble family's daughters, anyhow. Sebastian wasn't really sure what was so interesting, but he didn't question it, regardless.

Over a decade, he and Nathaniel were best of friends, and it seemed nothing could come between them. They held bets with one another, when they had grown into such things, and soon everything turned into competition. It only ever turned ugly once, and they had not spoken for nearly a week. By the end of it, however, they were both apologising before they knew the other was doing the same thing. They took a vow to never let something so petty come between them again.

Everything changed, however, when Sebastian began down a hedonistic path. Nathaniel noticed the slow change after a few months, and confronted his childhood friend about it. Sebastian denied doing such things, and lashed out when Nathaniel laid solid evidence at his feet. It was then Nathaniel realised his friend was drunk.

Sebastian knew he should stop, if not for his sake, for his friend's, but he couldn't. As close as they were, Nathaniel didn't know--couldn't know--the inner workings of Vael family politics, in which Sebastian was more a commodity than any sort of member. After months of trying, however, Nathaniel was beginning to convince him that drinking himself to death just might not be the right answer.

"Prove them wrong," his friend urged. "They say you're useless and no good. Why should you believe them? I know that you're not, you know that you're not, so why give them the satisfaction of believing that they are right?"

Sebastian stared at the floor, wishing for something in his hands--whether bow, dagger, or mug, he did not know or particularly care. "What if they are right, Nathan? What good _have_ I done? They say I am a threat to my brothers if they do not produce an heir, and I keep going the way I have been."

"So? If either of your brothers do not produce an heir, how is that your fault? Perhaps such a thing would be the Maker illustrating the best candidate for Prince?"

Sebastian snorted. "That's not how royalty works, I hate to break it to you."

"Well, it is my understanding that if Cameron does not produce any heir, it would then fall to him to name a successor."

"And what if I have a bastard that comes up one day in the future and claims blood right to the throne? You know what happens then, Nathaniel? Civil war." The Vael man's voice was flat, speaking either of his resignation to the fact or degradation to his self-worth.

"Wouldn't it work the same if Mathe had a son? In fact, wouldn't it be worse if Mathe had a son legitimately?"

"No," Sebastian snapped. "That would make things easier. A legitimate heir of Mathe's marriage would have full right to the throne by blood, and none would question it. A bastard born of my seed, however, would be questioned, and the principality would be thrown into turmoil were it not dealt with quickly."

A wry smile turned up Nathaniel's mouth and he tried to make light of things. "Well, at least you've been paying attention in our studies--more so than I, evidently."

"This is hardly the time for jests, Nathaniel." Sebastian was unmoved.

"I think you are destroying yourself over nothing, Sebastian," the dark-haired man said softly. "Cameron is married and I'm quite sure is trying his damnest to produce and heir, and Mathe is engaged--and probably trying just as hard. Besides, were you to have a legitimate heir, and your brothers none, then all your worrying would be for nothing, wouldn't it?"

Silence fell over Sebastian, and after a while, he looked up at his old friend. "You know, I never thought I'd be one to marry."

Nathaniel laughed. "We rarely do, but then it happens, so I hear. Did you ever think your brothers would?"

"Cameron, certainly."

"And Mathe?"

The third Vael son cocked his head to the side. "Mathe... not so much. He didn't have to, not being born second."

"There you have it. And," Nathaniel added, reaching down a hand to help his friend stand, which Sebastian took. "If your parents are any indication, I would not doubt the virility of the Vael blood or seed, and I do not think you have to worry about either of your brothers producing a host of heirs."

That brought a laugh from Sebastian, and Nathaniel smiled to hear it. Clapping the taller man on the back, Nathaniel felt himself relax. Sebastian valued the opinions of his family far more than he should, given their view of him, and at times it made him vulnerable. He wondered just how much he would have shattered himself if Nathaniel wasn't there to steady him when things got to be at their worst. The other young man was truly a boon, and one of the two people that kept Sebastian going.


	5. Grey

He was out hunting by himself--the first time he was allowed to do so, though his parents did not hold him quite as indispensable as his brothers. His falcon was at the mews, but he had his bow with him. He rode a borrowed horse--his had to be re-shod--but the dapple was sure on his feet and moved smoothly beneath him.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for--a deer, an elk, a pheasant; he was relishing more the time alone. Even the third son of royalty had to have an escort more often than not within the city, and he was glad he did not have one today. Fourteen was beyond time that other boys his age had been out on their own, but they were mostly nobles, and nobles were only a step above commoners, his father always liked to say. Sebastian sometimes longed for the life of a commoner.

The forest was cool and quiet, and he relaxed into the saddle, his bow resting across his lap in one hand, while he held the reigns loosely in the other. He had no qualms giving the dapple his head--it mattered little which path they took. Sebastian would always be able to find his way back to the old holdfast that was now Starkhaven proper, with its towering parapets looming like a mountain above the forest. He had been out for nearly an hour with no sign of any game, but Sebastian was not worried. If he found some, he would bring it home. If not, it was of no loss to him.

He was so content he almost missed it. A ghost drifted through the spaces of the trees, silent and watching him. Afterward, he was sure it let him see it--Sebastian would have ridden the entire time, oblivious, if it had chosen otherwise.

As it was, a movement caught the corner of his eye, and he half-turned in his saddle to follow the distraction. His dapple snorted and rolled his eyes. Brow knitting in uncertainty, he tightened a little on the reigns and leaned forward to try and calm the horse. When he looked up, it stood in front of him.

Large and silvery and dreadful, an enormous wolf blocked the narrow forest trail he had been following. The golden eyes of the beast bore directly into his, and Sebastian could not look away even as he fought to calm down his horse. With a grace that belied its huge frame, the wolf slowly walked to one side of the path toward him, eyes never moving. When it came a few steps closer, his horse reared and threw him roughly to the dirt, before tearing away through the forest toward the city. The wolf paused to watch it go, then looked back at Sebastian, pushing himself up on his arms into a sitting position.

Sebastian's pulse raced and he glanced around to find his bow--too far out of reach--and slid his hand to his dagger, as if he thought it would do any good against such a large creature. He wasn't even sure the blade was long enough to get past all the thick fur. Not two metres from him, the wolf stopped, close enough that he could see the amber flecks in its eyes, close enough to see the variations of grey in its coat, close enough to hear its even breathing. Sebastian felt paralysed, and could do nothing but stare back.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, but eventually, the wolf's ears flicked back to a sound on the edge of Sebastian's hearing--a howl? A chorus of howls? He couldn't say--then took a step back before turning and vanishing into the trees, like fog. For several minutes more, he stayed there, propped on his elbows, staring into the shadows where it had gone. He should have felt lucky it hadn't mauled him. He should have been up on his feet already, running back home.

But all he felt was the undeniable urge to lope after the silver ghost into the depths of the forest.


	6. Blue

It wasn't enough that he was born so much later than his brothers, his eyes were the subject of scrutiny, as well. Brighter blue than the sky on a Solace's clearest day, with flecks darker than the Minanter's lowest depths.

Both his parents had chestnut eyes. Both his brothers had nut-brown eyes.

The only saving grace was his grandmother--she had eyes like his, though he barely remembered her. She was a memory of smiles and songs, but had passed away to sickness before he had reached his seventh name-day.

He wished he remembered her better.

From what his grandfather had told him, he was very much like her. Both had a love of the sky and of water, to go along with their azure eyes, and both had an affinity for language and music. She sang; Sebastian danced.

When he was still young, Gawain Vael told him the story how he had first come across Meghan Tyrnoch and decided to make her his bride. She had been swimming in the Minanter when his grandfather had come across her, and Gawain swore she was beauty incarnate, and he was lost the moment he looked into her eyes. A sylkie, he said she had to have been, and when Sebastian asked what that was, Gawain told him a sylkie was a water dweller, that made young men fall in love with them, and then would lure them into the waters to their deaths. He then always told Sebastian that he had nothing to worry about, since he got his grandmother's water eyes. Of course, Gawain never truly thought his wife was a sylkie or anything of the sort, but the story never left Sebastian.

Years later, whenever he woke from bedding yet another woman, he wondered if he were part sylkie--no woman seemed to be able to resist him once he locked his gaze on them with the right intent. Perhaps his grandfather had been right, only it was his grandmother who had been lured onto land.


	7. Bitter

Happy chatter and lilting music filled the main hall of Starkhaven's castle. Bright buntings and streamers of fabric hung delicately from the rafters and the blind arcading that bled into carved columns as they arced down to the stone floor. It was early summer, and sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows of both the first and second floors, painting ancient mosaics of colour across the stones. A giant u-shaped arrangement of tables stretched nearly the length of the hall, and there were still those who had not found seats at them. Guests, of course, could not be lacking. Not for their firstborn's day of joy and happiness.

Cameron Vael sat in the middle of the raised dais that ran perpendicular to the longer tables, with his blushing bride by his left arm, and his father on his right. Next to Cameron's bride sat Mathe, second-born and smiling, and on the other side of Trystan Vael sat his wife, Beatrix Vael. Next to her sat the head of the Vael clan, Gawain. The only empty chair at the dais was Sebastian's.

The youngest Vael son was, for once, in good spirits--and not just those in his cup. It was obvious Cameron was ecstatic, and Sebastian just could not find it in him to be sour on this day. The ceremony had been lovely, he had to admit. Cameron and Sabine were wed beneath a flowering trellis, and the passages from the Chant of Light that the Revered Mother chose were quite heartwarming, even to Sebastian, who cared little for such things. After petals had been strewn across their path leading back into the castle proper, the wine and meade had flowed freely, and warmed Sebastian's blood all the more, though he moderated himself. He was in a good mood, and decided to keep it that way. He chose not to sit with his family, however, instead taking a place next to Nathaniel, and no one complained or even gave him a dark look. It seemed his brothers and parents were of a same mind with him on this day, and he thanked providence for small favours.

Nathaniel, however, was not in a moderating mood. He kept alternating stealing glances at Sabine--though everyone else had no problem staring at the dark-haired beauty and offering their congratulations--and glaring into his never-emptying cup. Mildly concerned by this point, Sebastian placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Nathaniel, are you all right? I can't even keep up with you today."

The Ferelden-born man grumbled something and took another swig, the warm sunlight failing to reach his grey eyes, cold as a blade.

"What was that? I seemed to have missed whatever you muttered into your drink." Sebastian frowned. Normally this went the other way 'round, with Nathaniel trying to keep Sebastian from drinking too much and mumbling angrily about his lot.

"I said, 'there's nothing for it, so leave well enough alone'." The older archer's voice was thick and lightly slurred.

"What are you--" Sebastian looked from Nathaniel to Sabine, whose dark eyes were downcast into her barely touched plate of food, as if she were bashful. But there was something more to her expression, something Sebastian reconised almost immediately now that he was looking for it. A shrewd cast came to his eyes as he turned back to his friend. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"She's not, you know." There was more anger than sadness to Nathaniel's statement.

"She doesn't love... my brother?" Sebastian guessed, eyes widening just a little at his friend's nodding. "How very... This must be hard for you, then."

"You have no idea," Nathaniel grated, then peered into his cup momentarily before downing the rest. Meade dribbled down from the corner of his mouth and he wiped it away on his silk sleeve, not caring about the fabric or what he did to it.

They had been friends and brothers-at-arms long enough for Sebastian to know when Nathaniel was gearing up to speak, and so he waited, lightly tapping the stem of his pewter cup.

"She didn't want this. Wanted to run away, in the middle of the night, with me." He let out a bitter laugh. "With me," he repeated.

Sebastian shook his head. "To where? She's been Cameron's intended for nearly half a year now; they would have searched you out and found you within a month."

"Back to Ferelden, she said. East to Antiva. West to Orlais. Or anywhere else we could find, she didn't care."

A moment of silence passed before Sebastian asked, "What stopped you?"

"Duty. Stupidity." Nathaniel shook his head and closed his eyes. "I told her it would be better for her if she married higher than her station, not below. I wanted her to have the best that could be offered, and I couldn't do that for her."

Taken aback, Sebastian could only stare at his friend until he found words again. "Nathaniel... you have an arling that you will be head of one day."

"Yes, and her father is a Viscount. I would be a step down for her. Your brother is heir to a throne."

"But she doesn't love him." Sebastian shook his head. "You both could have been happier if you ran away when you had the chance."

Sudden fury took over his friend's face as he whirled on Sebastian in his seat. "Such an easy thing for you to say--you're a third son, and by and large ignored unless you cause trouble. _I'm the heir_. Everything I do, everything I say is scrutinised. You can run away with whomever you like. I have responsibilities."

Sebastian scowled, his good mood well and soured by now. "You speak as if I care for nothing in this world but my own pleasure. Being a third son is no less easy than being the first. It is far worse in its own ways, believe you me."

"I am not sure I can believe that."

Anger flashed through Sebastian's eyes, the colour reflecting ice against the steel-grey of Nathaniel's. "Do not speak of things you do not comprehend, friend." Not wanting to get into an outright fight with Nathaniel, Sebastian stood abruptly and left, leaving his half-filled cup behind.

Nathaniel didn't watch him leave so much as glowered at the abandoned cup. His hand reached over and long fingers wrapped around the dark silver stem, drawing the vessel closer to him.

"She doesn't love him," he repeated acridly into the cup.


	8. Leave

The news reached him at night. The hours were at their smallest, fitting for the blackest of news. He was buried in a dark-haired woman when someone began pounding on the door. He ignored it and so did she. The pounding continued, louder than before, and when the woman finally looked up at him and mentioned it, he stopped in the middle of everything and rolled out of the bed. He swore as he dug around for his breeches, shouting to whomever was trying to get his attention to wait a moment. His head was still buzzed from drink, and he glanced over at the woman, who was taking the time to try and cover herself.

Without waiting for her to adequately hide her nakedness, Sebastian opened the door to the grim face of a guard he knew well and was not always on the best of terms with.

"Sebastian," he said, voice unusually reserved.

"MacOmhain… what are you doing here?" Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “I was under the impression so long as I stay out of sight, I would also be out of mind."

The guard shook his head. “This isn’t about that. Sebastian—"

The young Starkhaven prince shook his head. “Look. If my parents sent you to bring me back, I was right in the middle of a dark and lovely—"

“ _Sebastian_ ," MacOmhain snapped, moving as if he were about to slap the younger man across the face. “Shut it, for once, and just listen. The Prince is dead."

Surprise pooled in Sebastian’s belly as the words sunk in. “Dead? But… my father, he wasn’t… did someone kill him?" He wasn’t sure if what he felt was sadness or relief.

The guard caught his arm in a tight grip. “Sebastian. The _Prince of Starkhaven_ is dead. Your father was not the Prince."

Time stopped. He felt his breath stop. He could feel his heart stop beating. Realisation was a dagger in his gut, and he didn’t even feel the guard let go of him, didn’t hear anything he said after that moment. Blood drained from his face, and he felt his hands begin to shake. His grandfather. Indomitable Gawain Vael. His mentor, his grandsire, the only family member who ever showed caring for him. His one link, his one steady rock. Gone.

Somehow, he found his voice. “How? When?"

MacOmhain shook his head. “He was old. It was his time. As for when…" The older man hesitated. Sebastian grabbed his shoulder.

“ _When_?" he pressed.

MacOmhain wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Four months ago."

Sebastian’s hands fell and his feet took him away from the guard until his back hit the frame of the doorway. His hands grasped blindly behind him until his fingers dug into the wood. His eyes were dry, but he felt as if he were going to vomit—and it had nothing to do with any drink he had consumed.

"Sebastian, I—" MacOmhain reached out to him, to comfort somehow, but the young man’s eyes focused on him in anger instead, sharp and unforgiving.

"Why," he snarled. “Why am I only finding out now? Why didn’t anyone tell me?"

"Sebastian, listen…" The guard was used to Sebastian’s rages, but was determined to try and talk him down. “They—we—I tried to find you."

"Tried? You know where I go, Ywan. You know my haunts." Sebastian’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “You could have found me."

Conflict flashed across MacOmhain’s face. “I… I knew you should have been told. I tried to convince them to let me find you, but—"

"They?" At first Sebastian didn’t understand, but then he knew. “They." His brothers. Cameron and Mathe. The pain from grief that he felt gave way to the numbness of rage. He slipped into it like an old coat; rage was an old friend of his, and he knew all the steps to the dance they danced. It was a safe place to be, better than the loneliness of grief.

"Sebastian, don’t do anything hasty."

Something dark flashed in the young man’s eyes as he straightened and looked at MacOmhain. “Oh, no. Trust me. It won’t be hasty." He vanished into the room where the dark-haired woman still was and dressed, offering her no explanation no matter what she hissed at him. He tossed her a silver—which she threw back at him in anger—and he closed the door on her. MacOmhain barred his way down the stairs of the tavern.

"Move," he ordered. The guard didn’t move.

"Sebastian, if you think I’m going to let you by, you really haven’t learned anything over all these years."

"You can’t keep me from them, Ywan. You cannot watch over me every moment." Sebastian flexed and relaxed his hand, but made no move otherwise.

MacOmhain watched him for a moment before he replied. “I know. But I might be able to delay you long enough to prevent you from doing anything you’d regret one day."

The haunted look that settled in Sebastian’s eyes looked as if it would never leave. “No. Everything I could have cared about has left this world now. I will not regret anything." He didn’t try to force his way past the guard, but instead went back inside his room. A moment later, the girl came out, pulling her chemise up to cover her shoulders. She glowered at the guard, and he watched as she went and knocked on another door, then slipped inside.

It wasn’t until several minutes later that MacOmhain realised no sounds were coming from within Sebastian’s room. He relaxed a little, feeling compassion for the young man, and knocked gently on the door. When he received no answer, he pushed the door open. Darkness greeted him, and he squinted to peer around the room. The only thing he could clearly see was the open window with moonlight pouring in. The shutter creaked quietly in the night, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw the room was empty. With a curse, MacOhmain ran to the window and leaned out, trying to find Sebastian’s figure in the dark to no avail.

And he hesitated before he ran out of the tavern proper to look for the boy. They were his brothers, after all. They should have told him sooner.


	9. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[leave](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760019)**

It was still dark when he reached the old castle. He had borrowed--he wouldn't say "stolen"; the horse would find its way back to its stable, he was fairly certain--one of the dark mares from the stable beside the inn and drove hard heels into her underbelly, making her roll her eyes before shooting like a dart into a gallop. He had excellent horsemanship, and so had not bothered to waste time with a saddle, or even bit and bridle. Under normal circumstances, he enjoyed riding bareback--the warm horseflesh beneath him a comfort in addition to the earthy scent that always accompanied them. His legs clamped around her sides securely, while hands, calloused from bowstrings and arrows, gripped tightly to her mane. A pregnant moon watched over him, lighting the old road he went down like a river of silver. It went below his notice. Tonight he didn't ride for enjoyment, nor did he take pleasure in it; tonight was for haste and rage. He hadn't been too far from the city proper, and reached it in just over an hour.

Not bothering to rub the mare down, he slid off her back almost before she had stopped by the looming walls of the castle's gardens. He heard her give several loud heaves of air behind him even as he quickly scanned the wall, running his fingers along the rough stones. There it was. Nimble hands took him off the ground, scaling the wall like a lizard until he reached the wide top. He hesitated, crouched, his eyes tracking along the outer battlements as they wrapped around the home of all his forebears.

"That's the way," he growled to himself once he had settled on a path, and, with the grace of a cat, swiftly made his way along the garden wall to the first parapet, and climbed that the same way as the first wall.

Moving in such a manner, Sebastian crawled up until he reached the crenelation he wanted, and dropped down to the stone floor from between two merlons. The wall-walk looped around the tops of two towers, connecting between with an arced bridge. The tower he headed toward contained his rooms--and the rooms of his brothers.

His fingers itched--oh, Maker how his fingers itched. His throat was tight and felt raw, and his heart pounded in his chest so loudly he was surprised none had been alerted to his presence yet. His neck and ears burned, and he knew if any saw him, he would look like some crazed man to their eyes. He did not care. His grandfather was dead--had been dead for months--and _they_ were the reason he had not known.

He ran his palm over the hilt of his long dagger before turning to and climbing on top of the merlon right next to one of the towers. He hesitated for a moment, lightly grinding his boot into the stone as he judged the distance--and then he was in the air, jumping from the edge of the parapet to the wide stone window on the tower wall. He grabbed the edge of the sill and nearly lost his grip from the rest of his own momentum, but he scraped his boots along the rough tower wall to gain purchase and steadied himself.

Hanging there for a moment to retrieve his breath, he remembered his anger and hoisted himself up into the dark opening above him. Crouching in the window to wait for his eyes to adjust, he stilled his breathing and listened. Cameron's light snoring came from his left, and Sebastian felt fury burn through his blood again. They had never been on good terms, but they knew. They knew how close Sebastian was to their grandsire. They knew how Gawain Vael had taken his youngest grandson under his wing.

For all he knew, that was why they kept the news of his death from him.

Eyes finally adjusted to the light filtering into the chamber, illuminating it dimly, Sebastian stepped down into the room proper, drawing up to his full height with eyes widened and white knuckles around the hilt of his dagger. He silently padded into the shadows next to Cameron's bed, never waking his brother with a misstep or accidental noise. Sebastian was far too used to this sort of skulking to make a mistake. As he looked down at his eldest brother, however, murder in his heart, something still his hand from unsheathing his blade.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._   
_Many are those who rise up against me._   
_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_   
_Should they set themselves against me_

The voice of his grandfather came back to him--the verse from the Canticle of Trials he said to Sebastian the first time Cameron and Mathe had been cruel to him. He could see his grandfather's face, tanned from the sun and smiling the small, knowing smile he reserved only for Sebastian, it seemed. It seems like the world is against you, he had said. _But they know not what they do or say._ Let them do what they will, and show them that you will endure whatever storm, whatever darkness, whatever hurtful words or actions they try and force upon you. Be the better son.

A shiver ran through Sebastian's body that was part grief, part anger still, but he backed away from Cameron's bed. As much as he hated them for all they had ever done to him, for all that they had kept from him, he would not be named kinslayer.

If only for his grandfather's memory.


	10. Arrogance

Kirkwall did nothing to daunt him. The Chantry did nothing to daunt him. He wasn't an initiate, after all, only a lay brother. There were no vows to keep him, and since he had to stay, he might as well make the best of things.

He had no doubts that he would.

He made a bet with himself--a different one each day for a month. Wintersend would mark the beginning, and by the end of Guardian, he should have thirty names forgotten and have had thirty bodies beneath his.

He used his accent more often than not--it was the quickest and easiest way, especially south of Starkhaven. Women and girls swooned when he rolled his r's, and if they had a name-- _Riona, Arianna, Urial_ \--it made it all the easier. By the end of the first week, he had eight names, so he took a break the next day. This was going to be too easy.

The second week, he resolved to make his eyes the deciding factor. He knew they were bluer than the sky in August, and he knew exactly how to give looks to make knees turn to water. His count was seventeen by the end of the second week, including the day he took for himself. He took two this time.

Four days remained to him in the third week, and he decided nothing but his smile was to charm the women he decided on out of their skirts and smalls. He could make just the corners twitch in a ghost of a smile, hinting at so much more, or he could spread a smile out, drawing it slow as molasses. Sweet or rakish, both worked in equal parts, and he was a master at knowing which to know when. In four days, he got five more.

Kirwall, he surmised, either had extremely loose women, or it was a place for amateurs--a status he had surpassed years ago, in his mind. Either than or he was simply the best-looking man in the entire city, and while he enjoyed entertaining the idea, he preferred to put more stock in his abilities than mere luck. He tried to take the entire fourth week off, but ended up with two more, anyhow.

Six days and six more remained. He wasn't sure he even had to try anymore, at this point, considering his track record when he really, truly tried. Perhaps that was the key to outwitting himself. Don't even try. Don't use any of your charms, none of your tricks, and just let them come to you. Figuratively and literally. Over and over, literally. Perhaps he'd let word of mouth (or something of mouth, anyway) dictate this last week. He would proverbially sit back and let them do all the work for him. He reached thirty by the night of the fourth day.

Why couldn't he have been sent to Rivain or Antiva, or even Orlais, where there'd be more of a challenge? Kirkwall was for amateurs.


	11. Hope

It had been several weeks since he decided to walk through the front doors of the Kirkwall Chantry of his own accord, since he decided not to take advantage of the chance Elthina gave him to run away to a life of self-destruction and hedonistic morals guiding his actions.

Despite the choice he made to stay, the road was not an easy one. Old habits died hard, and he had spent years bitterly and angrily honing his. Some days were easier than others, but most of them were difficult. He struggled to adhere to the tasks given him, to not whine and complain when he thought he had done enough and more was asked of him. Sometimes he bit his lip so hard to hold his tongue he tasted blood.

But it was all worth it. He found something he never had before, a chance he had never been given before. His parents forced him into the Chantry, but it was his decision to stay. The first time anyone had given him a decision he didn't have to take for himself was when Elthina wrote him that note.

He was tired of running, tired of always being thought of as useless. He was tired of being unwanted and cast aside, and the Grand Cleric, in that one act, showed him he didn't have to be.


	12. Alone

It took him some times to realise what a boon he had been given. He was young, so of course he fought it. His parents trying to reign in their youngest by sending him to a Chantry. Of course, they hadn’t really expected him to take his own vows, of his own free will. Then again, neither did he.

He was surprised when he finally stopped bemoaning his ill-received fate that he… liked it.

He found things he never thought he would have in his life—quiet. Peace. The chantry left him many opportunities to be with no one but his thoughts, and for once, that didn’t strike him with terror.


	13. Infatuation

It wasn't like anything he had felt before. No woman had ever come close to making him feel this way, and he had known more than his fair share of them. No, this was something more, something actually substantial. He almost felt that if he could open himself up somehow, he would be able to reach in and pull out a physical manifestation of her. She was all he could think about now, and his heart had never felt so full before, his soul had never felt so at peace.

Kirkwall was the City of Chains, and it had been no different for Sebastian when he first arrived. But now, now he had purpose. He had something to wake up to every day, a reason to smile and breathe lighter. The change did not go unnoticed by the other chantry sisters and mothers. He was always a common subject among the initiates to begin with, Kirkwall's Chantry being devoid of any other Brother. The first time he bashfully joined them in singing the Chant of Light was whispered about for days afterward. Such a rich baritone. Such a lovely, full sound, with that accent filling in all the empty corners.

Sebastian dove headfirst into the chores that required heavier manual labour than even the hardiest Sister or Mother could manage, reveling each and every time he broke a sweat. Before, only practicing and sex brought him the joy of a good sweat, but now he felt it most days. Hard work in the name of Andraste was work he would never before have imagined himself doing, but now he found himself impatient for more. He threw himself into it as if he had nothing left to live for.

He also spent his nights in study, pouring over the ancient tomes the Chantry possessed--about Andraste, the histories of Thedas, anything he could find, really, but he favoured the ones devoted to Andraste the most. She had stolen his heart and soul, this warrior-queen, and Sebastian could not help himself for it.

For nearly three years, Sebastian had finally found the peace of mind and soul, and the quiet of heart his grandfather had talked about wishing he had more of, and he could think of nothing more to want in his life but to fill it with the grace of Andraste and her teachings.

Then there came the murders. Then there came Hawke, and his world of Andraste was shattered.


	14. Destroy

"He’s been at it again."

"It’s such a shame. Such a waste."

"You would never think he was brother to the other two."

Their words haunted him. Every year, every day. They started as whispers when he was a child—the surprise, the unplanned. It was almost a scandal when he was born, and his birth was on the tip of every noble’s tongue. The heir and the spare were already both almost ten when he was born, and everyone murmured about the nature of his birth behind his back, behind his parents’ backs. He grew up being unwanted and largely ignored. The only response he got from his father was disdain, and the only thing his mother ever expressed to him was disappointment. His brothers taught him anger. The only people to ever show they cared about him were his nurse and his grandfather, and the former was shuffled off soon as he was older.

At first he tried to please his parents, tried to emulate his older brothers. Quickly, however, he learned his parents weren’t interested in him or anything he did. They weren’t pleased or angry with any of his actions—they seemed content to leave him to his grandfather and ignore him. As much as Sebastian loved the man, however, his grandfather was not his father. He was not Sebastian’s mother, nor his brothers. His young mind was fixated only on pleasing those people he could never be good enough for.

As he grew older, he told himself he stopped caring what they thought of him. He would do what he wanted. He didn’t have any obligations. He had no courtly duties to train for, no competition for his eldest brother’s spot. He was expected to learn the ways of war, and help lead troops, but other than that, he had an education and that was all the attention he got. He learned the ancient tongue and archery from his grandfather. In the midst of his studies, Sebastian discovered how women looked at him. How they listened to him speak. Not many people could speak the old tongue, and he watched one after another bite their lip or fidget whenever he spoke it.

He was fourteen when he snuck into his first tavern. He had drank before then—when he was a boy, he quickly learned a good portion of the hidden passageways throughout the castle of his youth, and had come across cellars full of all kinds of alcohol: wine, beer, and whisky. He had gone back later when he was older and cared about such things to try them. The first time he got drunk, he was eleven, and spent the better part of that night throwing up in the corner of one of the cellars. He had cleaned it up the next day, with no one the wiser. By the time he was fourteen and in a tavern in his own right, he knew how much to drink and how much to pass on. No one recognised him as the third child of the Prince and Princess of Starkhaven, and it felt good. Girls looked at him for what they saw and heard, not what they knew. He had his first woman that night, too. He was fumbling and quick to finish, but the girl didn’t seem to mind. Years later, he still remembered her name. Not many of the ones that followed her, but he remembered her name. Yrisil. She had brown curling hair and pale skin. That was all he remembered, however. They soon all blurred together. After having his first taste, Sebastian became insatiable. He took it upon himself to learn every inch of lovemaking and sex and fucking that he could. After the first few years, his family finally took notice of his absences and began questioning him and after him.

When he was seventeen, he had a reputation. He could drink the best of them under the table, always won at Wicked Grace, and could charm any woman out of her smalls without laying more than a sidelong glance on her. That was when his family found out about his escapades. They tried to sit him down, to talk to him, but all their empty words, caring of nothing but their own reputations, fell on deaf ears. Sebastian had created his own path now, and it lead straight to the bowels of their nightmares. He told himself he was careful, discerning, but he was really only looking out for himself. He drank more than he should, and fucked more than he could keep track of any longer. That was the year his grandfather died. The man had always been proud of Sebastian, had always shown care toward his youngest grandson, and Sebastian hadn’t even know about his death until months after it happened. After trying to strangle his brothers in blind rage and having to be bodily removed from their presence, he drank and took woman after woman until he blacked out. He lost that entire week. After that, he left Starkhaven.

Two years later, his family finally caught up with him and forced him into the Chantry. At first he had the fleeting thought it was to help him—even he was beginning to recognise the destructive path he was barrelling down. Then he found out it was because his exploits were being retraced back to them, and they didn’t want him sullying their name any longer. He spoke out at them in anger, cursing each and every one of them, spitting the words in vehemence. He thought he would never forgive them. He told himself he had done everything over the past few years because it was what he wanted. That it wasn’t a small boy’s cry for their attention. He told them he wasn’t like them, that he would never be like them, and he would be happy to be rid of them in any capacity—even to a place he hated would be better than back in Starkhaven with them.

That was the last thing he ever said to any of them.


End file.
